The Walking Willow

Stratos offered his hand and helped the wooden woman step from the tree. Though she still appeared to be a tree, miraculously grown into the shape of a woman, rather than something carved, she had taken on a more life-like semblance. Her eyes were no longer simply knots of wood, but slightly almond-shaped wooden eyes with slowly blinking wooden lids. She did not speak, or breathe, but merely followed stiffly behind Sibyl until told to do otherwise or physically guided in a new direction.

As they parted the curtain of drooping willow branches, the ancient centaur, Starmane, looked up at them from beside his table. Aelen waved to him and received a raised hand in acknowledgement. He did not seem to bear them ill-will for entering his grove and taking this living wood from the tree he was sworn to protect. He seemed content that honor had been satisfied, his oath had been fulfilled, and he had been beaten fairly. Without knowing their names, he could not give them a proper burial, and without giving them a proper burial, he could not slay them in combat.

He had been subtle and crafty in his attempts to coax the names of the intruders from them. But Aelen Stratos, Cathica Delver and Sibyl Destiny hid behind amusements and innuendo, thanks to the warning they had received. As they put him to their backs, Aelen truly hoped that one day Starmane would know his name, would see if written in the sky.

The corridor of trees turned again and the horde of phantom hobgoblins greeted them with snarling fangs and raised weapons. The wooden girl seemed not to notice them, or anything, and again, as they had been warned, Stratos and his companions remained peaceful. Without aggression to empower them, the illusory monsters parted before them, allowing them to pass back out of the grove.

They picked their way through the dim light until the dim light took on a faint red cast. From one side of the path to the other, the roses blocked their way out. Aelen inhaled the scent of the white rose he’d laced into his armor at the shoulder, the rose they had picked on the other side that gave them safe passage through the lulling scent of the deceptively deadly red roses.

Cirrus, and Cathica’s, as yet unnamed, horse waited in the dappled hall of trees beyond the grove. He mounted in a single leap and offered Sibyl his hand while Cathica directed the walking willow to climb up behind her in her saddle. They turned their mounts towards what had appeared as a dead-end behind them when they arrived. But it didn’t matter where they had come from.

The glade where the gnomes had feasted, and had rewarded kindness with aid, lay back the way they had come. The little fey had scattered at their approach, but emerged at Cathica’s fair words, and they had offered their knowledge of the Willow Glade if they could answer three riddles.

The more you take, the more you leave behind.

Sibyl has closed her eyes, moaning and swaying as she searched for some divination. Though the druidess seemed to know very little about prophecy, she soon answered: Steps.

He has married many, but never been married.

Cathica mulled it over in silence, but not for long. Comfortable with riddles, and wrapping herself in them oft-times, she answered: A priest.

Which is correct? The yolk of the egg is white, or the yolk of the egg are white?

Stratos cocked his head to the side, looking at the gnome. “But the yolk is yellow.”

The gnomes had been delighted and had shared their knowledge of the hidden glade with their taller fey cousins, and had given warnings of the three dangers and how to defeat them. They had also listened with fearful joy to the short tale of their encounter with a gnoll hunter. He had unleashed his twin wolves on the questing companions, and fought savagely to the death. Perhaps it had been hunting the gnomes, perhaps not, but Stratos suspected that they were as happy to be rid of a threat as they were to be entertained by the tale itself.

And far off now, three-day’s ride and unknown leagues away, was Ag Gecedi – Gateway – was the seat that Lord Summit ruled, and that he had vowed to abdicate in return for the willow-body and the breath of life that would let his mountain giant-daughter take elven form to court her love. Lady Cumulus had summoned Aelen to her side at court, her sweet breath blowing in his ear as she whispered to him. He would have companions, allies from the Court of Trees, who would help. And when he had returned, Cumulus and Rowan could work the magic that would show true love the way, and open the path for new powers in Gateway.

But their path did not turn back towards Ag Gecedi yet. From the deepest glade they must travel to the highest peak, there to lure the breath that gives life. He looked at his companions, two women who had shown cunning and bravery on this adventure.

Cathica he had seen across the court the very morning that Lady Cumulus had sent him on this quest. She was as remote and cold as her silvery garments, but she was born to serve the Moon Court, lost these last fourteen centuries. She’d ridden into the deep feywild in search of inspiration for the artists she served, and had been lost. Sucked into the feywild like a leaf ripped from a branch in a storm, and like a leaf deposited in a far off field by that wind, she had been returned…over a thousand years late.

She claimed not to be an artist herself, but she carried a silver flute, which spoke as fair and sweetly as her voice. She claimed not to be a warrior, but she used her scimitar with consummate grace. She’d fended Aelen off with riddles at first, but as the moon’s face changed, she shed her demeanor and adopted a new one.

Sibyl was much less a mystery, though she pretended to it more. When asked a question, the answer did not come without her eyes rolling back into her head, her body swaying as if wind-blown, and then a whispered riddle for answer. A druidess raised by tigers in the jungles of the feywild, Aelen was not sure where she derived her preoccupation with the future. It made for a fun sort of guessing-game.

In battle, Sybil was almost another creature entirely. Well, to the point, she quite physically was. Though she could command the thunderous fury of nature, she could also shape-shift into a massive golden tiger. She struck quickly and directly, charging into the fight with feline speed and ferocious strength. If Stratos had not seen the oracular woman become the mighty cat, he would not have believed them to be the same person.

It was all fascinating. Though the sword-artists missed his old companions, he found his new allies to be intriguing and resourceful. Whatever challenges stood before them on the second half of their quest, he had confidence that they would triumph. And beautifully so.